The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Gunnar considered whether to disabuse him of that fact, and decided against it. Arno would learn soon enough that any place where Gunnar Olafson was became his concern.

“You know why you are here?” Arno’s voice was sharp, authorative, and all business. His eyes were sly, as watchful as a cornered fox.

“You are paying us.”

It was the literal truth. “Yes,” the Norman knight said slowly, “I am paying you. Therefore you will do exactly as I say.”

Gunnar nodded, his blue eyes cold. “We will do most things for money, but if you want women and children killed you’ll have to pay us extra.”

Sir Arno was nonplussed. Gunnar could see the questions in the man’s eyes: Is he jesting? Should I fear him? And then the mental shrugging of his shoulders, the reminding himself of his better blood and breeding, the unshakable confidence in his own authority.

“Good,” said Sir Arno. “As long as you don’t kill anyone without orders.”

Ivo made a soft sound of disgust.

Gunnar’s hand clenched more firmly on the hilt of his sword, but otherwise he made no movement. So far Sir Arno had done nothing wrong. Arrogance and cruelty coupled with complacency weren’t treasonable offenses.

“Captain?”

Ivo’s voice was not raised or markedly different, and yet there was something in it, a hint of surprise or perhaps warning. Gunnar looked up quickly.

And felt his wits dissolve in a hot shower of lust.

She was walking toward them.

Her madder-red gown was made of fine wool, and it molded to her tall, shapely body. A plaited gold girdle clung about her hips, a purse and various keys and gewgaws fastened to it. He could see the shape of her, the long length of thigh, the curve of full breast. Her face was a pale oval within the soft fluttering folds of her white veil. Dark eyes, lush mouth, skin like milk with the slightest hint of honey.

He had thought his body jaded—there were always women wherever he went, too many, and when he was hungry for them he supped. And yet now that same body reacted like that of an untried youth, startling him, jerking him from his complacency. He wanted to reach out and lift her across his saddle. He wanted to fasten his mouth to hers, taste her, drink of her lips.

For a man of such rigid calm, he felt raw and wild and out of control in a way he had not felt for years.

Maybe ever.

Great Odin, let her not be the Lady Rose! But even as the prayer passed his lips, he knew Odin had denied him, for Sir Arno lifted his head and murmured, “’Tis Lady Rose. A word of warning, Captain. You will not mention who it was that sent you? The lady does not like to declare her business before strangers.”

Gunnar barely acknowledged the caution. His eyes were fixed on the approaching woman.

It was the last thing he needed at this time and in this place, with so much at stake. Gunnar groaned softly to himself. Had he really believed his final undertaking would be easy?

The vision of sweet beauty approaching them was none other than the wanton and treacherous Lady Rose of Somerford Manor—the woman he had come to destroy.

Rose had not seen the mercenaries arrive.

She had been down to the storeroom, looking over a suspect barrel of salted meat. The meat smelled, but Rose had learned caution in her four years at Somerford Manor, one of them as sole ruler. It was prudent to keep everything, even smelly meat, until better could replace it. Besides, there were ways of making bad good again. Washing the meat thoroughly in vinegar, for instance, or burying it in the earth for a day or two. Still, they would not eat it, not yet, not unless they had no option. And even then—Rose wrinkled her nose—the situation would need to be desperate!

And then she reminded herself that it was desperate. They were undermanned and therefore vulnerable to attack from anyone who had the will to do so. And of late someone wanted very much to see the people of Somerford brought low.

Their troubles had begun with some pilfering in the village and escalated to a woodpile burned, a hoe stolen, a pig slaughtered and the choice bits taken off. And then last month some strangers had appeared in the village in the night and frightened the villagers badly by throwing stones upon their thatches, shouting and laughing all the while.

The villagers blamed the merefolk. Rose knew her people were superstitious, and since the troubles had begun they had grown worse. Sullen, afraid, angry. Like a bubbling cauldron filled with centuries of animosity, the situation had become too volatile. Rose had realized it was time to do something more than talk.

It was she who had put forward the suggestion of employing mercenaries, persuading Sir Arno they had no other choice.

“If we had some experienced men, Sir Arno, or at least men who appear to be experienced, I am sure that would settle the matter. These mischief makers, be they merefolk or whoever, would vanish back to where they came from and we would never be troubled again.”

Arno looked pained. “I am training our men, my lady. They will be ready soon.”

“Yes, but they are raw troops, Sir Arno! Boys, most of them. We have barely enough soldiers to guard our gates; how can we frighten off an attack, if one should come?”